


How It Ends

by hazyamethyst



Category: Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: M/M, back from the dead here i am, this is dark and probably bad i haven't written fic in months just saying, with content nobody asked for as per usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-03 13:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10968282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazyamethyst/pseuds/hazyamethyst
Summary: I wrote you a poem, Miles.Not that you'd care, I know.





	1. Poem 109

I need you to tell me the truth,  
wherever it is,  
I’ll open your shirt only as wide as a few undone buttons allow, tonight,  
let it hang from those high shoulders  
the sun never gets to touch,  
like I do,  
but if it were just sweaty fabric, Mi,  
ah, love, would you get this difficult?,  
pristinely unreachable across my field of vision,  
if it’s only  
meetings, or work,  
if it’s true you’re wanted, and I need to be reasonable,  
and all those dull senseless packets of words,  
you don’t think twice about hurling me way,  
because I look like I could use it,  
ain’t that reyt?,  
broodiness, a conflicted look in me eye,  
a swig of burning liquor, or half a dozen,  
anything goes for Alex,  
he just _slacks_ ,  
he smokes,  
he strums strings for money,  
lots, perhaps,  
but that’s not the point,  
it’s not a job,  
living in a bubble,  
and knowing little other than hitting the right notes and looking handsome.

Alex, you think, won’t notice if I slip in late, change  
in the bathroom and shower alone.  
Alex won’t see me tuck any ties away in my briefcase,  
if my phone is always off at midday,  
because he won’t call, or snoop,  
because he’s quiet, docile and only a slap away of  
melting to my feet and taking it like a pretty little bitch,  
I’ll pull the longer locks of his scalp enough to have him cry but, hey,  
he’s hopeless like that,  
and I don’t want it changing,  
the pout, the shaky hands,  
the soft-voiced cries to _please just touch me_ when I can’t bother  
to get it up.

No, I am loveless enough to not even do it properly,  
because I know he’s a light sleeper but I stomp in drunk all the same,  
because I’m clueless about laundry and yet there’s always towels in place for me,  
folded, like the clothes I leave behind the door will surely be,  
by artifice unknown,  
because his ties are mine, we used to swap clothes,  
so why should he mind? I’ll maybe blink and think of him while doing other,  
miss the decline button, and slide my thumb to answer, let him hear words louder  
than ‘hello’, or ‘how’s your day going’,  
yes, it’s all in good fun,  
loving is vapid,  
and I’m still wanting, still fit,  
still charismatic enough to charm them,  
and they are willing,  
so, why  
not?

It’s not like you’ll read this, anyway,  
I’ve written it before, bitterness less explicit,  
heartbreak visible to ink, paper, me,  
Me, me and me.  
Up to some point it seems I’m arguing myself instead,  
all this… _what?_ ,  
endurance,  
idiocy,  
creativity fuel for dark, melancholic  
lyrics and tunes that shout misery,  
loneliness,  
pity?

And it’s me,  
it’s all just me, trying to reach you and keep you for good, for myself,  
because I’m the best one, still,  
after almost a year and a half since you started all this I’m still first,  
yes, bloody good ol’ Alex,  
you still choose me, and I go, I’ll hug you and let you,  
pretend I’m not thinking of how they look, what they do,  
how I lack and they’ve got,  
I’m just off and away and you’re beautiful as always in me eyes,  
you’ll be taintless even if I spot concealer make-up wearing off where the shirt  
slides down and you come forward with heavy lips to distract me,  
_easy me_ ,  
there’s this nagging thought lately, love,  
I want to make your heart stop and steal your breath whole away,  
not like I used to, I know, it won’t happen by a mere look,  
it’ll need pressing, force and a will strong like mine never is but,  
could it be tonight, Mi?  
I love imagining maybe you’ll quiet afterwards, just lie by me instead,  
you, depending on me hold and care,  
you, helpless and nobody else’s ever again  
to see, touch or feel,  
only Alex’s,  
to love forever,  
_you._


	2. Poem 9

It’s cufflinks you wanted, Swiss mint tins, ginger,  
they rattle in me pockets as I sway, and I write,  
I’m holding a bag close to my chest,  
in a materialistic frenzy, I’ve decided the little jewel cannot get hemmed in,  
too, by careless strangers,  
not after me fruitless wandering in malls turned into curious steps down a sloping pavement,  
glazed with snow,  
the streets below homely narrow and winding,  
lights dimmed enough to trample over,  
the acid vision of having me anonymity snatched,  
by the eager,  
the praiseful,  
the explicitly inhibited,  
you’d think the air-people ratio is far from levelling off,  
that I’ve been indulging in enchanting solitude,  
across this little portion of land you hear it’s banks and  
Alps,  
and, love, if you bought it then we’re the same,  
we’ve been cruelly swindled,  
us both,  
you’d like it here, all the din and debauchery not so foreign,  
all the pills to pop they offer,  
it is really something,  
I’d only care to try if you do,  
if you stick around to remind me how not to kill myself in the process,  
wet lips with water, pat me back,  
pick me up, squeeze my hip and veer me  
to where you want to be,  
'Al, here, Al, Al,  
listen, babe,  
_let’s dance_.'

Did you guess it already? Or did I manage to puzzle you past the point of no return?  
Can you tell the nipping cold makes me think only of summer,  
that it’s like the missing morphs into things more ordinary?  
Is it absurd you probably do know?  
You got me bad, baby,  
it’s a pair of sunglasses, frame gold and lenses amber,  
to water down the gaze after which I pick my poison,  
hoping alcohol might re-create part of the feeling of it while you're abroad,  
and it’s somewhat close, and terribly far, in the tumbler or down my throat,  
burning,  
I easily lose count,  
favour warmth, a toxic sour tongue,  
I'll kiss with it the ghost of you in my most lucid fantasies,  
have you justly spellbound,  
under me thumb and soft as you so rarely deign to be,  
I’ll have you talk to me about what you lock away,  
why, and exactly how much,  
the reason you’re not sharing your stress, burdens and insecurities,  
when you so readily cling on to mine,  
I’d show you I’ve got the temper it takes, too,  
to guide you and bend your wishes when they go astray,  
I’d leave you bare, show you nothing happens,  
I will not take your place,  
or flinch away from your influence,  
you can trust me, wholly,  
I’ll whisper it to you clearly,  
pause,  
rebuke you lightly for making me take the leap and have me  
waiting ever since, holding out for something more,  
thoughts festering at bouts in me head,  
about it being all make-believe, us,  
but you’d laugh, in my very own daydream,  
you’d laugh mockingly and say:  
‘Al, you’re really quite the daft lad.  
I’m yours as you’re mine.’,  
and I, brimming with joy, would peck at your forehead in return,  
glad it's finished,  
then a blink will draw longer, black will come to vanish and  
I’ll see maybe the bottle is,  
certainly the almost scripted phantasm that will,  
haunt me time and time again,  
but-

  
You’re not this complicated, love,  
and the trolley I’m riding has almost emptied,  
oh, look at me,  
still standing, writing, swaying,  
and holding the bag to my chest,  
wondering what you got me,  
if you weren’t  
too busy,  
I know you usually are,  
I missed your last call today and couldn’t get back to you,  
I’ll write it,  
then,  
if it’s midnight over in Germany,  
Miles,  
you’re in luck.

They say lovers writing you poems while you sleep,  
makes for nice dreams,  
so dream calmly.

All through the night, uninterrupted,  
sleep well, and on,  
on,  
on,  
on you sleep while I make tea,  
soon,  
sip it,  
and try my best to join you in an easier world.


End file.
